Page 110 of Bratva Bidder
“Forget the phone,” he says again, closer now. “You said you’d make it up to me,kroshka.”
I end the call instantly, thumb slamming against the screen, like killing the line might kill the echo of his voice in my skull.
But it doesn’t.
It lingers.
My blood is boiling now—pulsing hot, every heartbeat louder than the last. I can feel it building behind my ribs, tight and sharp like a blade waiting to be drawn.
Roman.
He did this.
He played Sergei. Used Ivana like a pawn—no, like a weapon. Lured Sergei in, dangled something just out of reach, just believable enough to make a seasoned soldier second-guess himself.
Roman’s not my brother anymore.
He’s a target.
And I’m going to find him.
I’m going to drag him out of whatever silk-sheeted den he’s hiding in, tear down every layer of protection he’s built, and make him understand that this time, there is no escape.
He wanted a war?
He’s going to get one.
But it’s going to be on my terms.
And it’s going to end with him on his knees.
23
NADYA
The doctor returnswith a folder clutched so tightly his knuckles have blanched, and the moment I see the angle of his shoulders I know the news is bad before he even speaks.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Makarova,” he says, voice measured, eyes flicking once to Lev standing just behind me and then straight back to me. “The detailed HLA workup confirms what the rapid panel only hinted at—neither you, Mr. Buryakov, nor Mila is a viable bone-marrow match for Nikolai. We’ll start an urgent search on the international registry, but that process can take time.”
Time.
Time Nikolai’s cardiologist keeps reminding me he doesn’t have.
I nod—once, sharply—because if I open my mouth right now I’m afraid all that will come out is a scream. Mila, oblivious, colors in a plastic chair by the window; Nikolai dozes lightly in his bed, an IV humming beside him. My whole world is contained in that corner of the room, and none of us is enough to save him.
The doctor outlines next steps—expanded typing, donor banks, compassionate-use protocols—but the words slip past like water over glass. When he finally excuses himself, Lev moves to my side, a silent wall of steadiness, but his comfort only makes the hollowness inside me echo louder.
My phone buzzes.
Konstantin.
I almost let it ring out of spite—he should be here, not chasing blood and bullets—but I swipe to answer because I don’t have the energy for another fight played out in missed calls and terse texts.
“I’m on my way back,” he says, breath short like he’s talking while moving fast. “Twenty minutes, maybe less.”
I look at Nikolai’s pale face, at the slow rise and fall of his chest, and something hard settles behind my ribs. “Don’t bother,” I say, keeping my voice as even as I can manage. “We’re coming home.”
A pause crackles through the line. “Nadya, what happened?”
